Sacrament I

& all the faucets pour oil or milk.

We fill father’s bottles, the brown & green;

thick glass blood cells, a throat-slit pouring silk.

When will the baptisms make me feel clean?

We dig holes in the yard. They fill with mud.

I go, I drop in all the shiny things,

the necklaces clit-plucked, pink flower bud,

my hole—amuck mess: gargling glint rings.

Our dish soap is blue & so is mary.

She’s plastic bottle, she’s soil bubble.

It’s baby bath, she rubs me black cherry.

We go digging for the pit, pair knuckle.

& so, I repeat, each morning again.

Stain skin, sugary with original sin.